Everybody's Got a Weakness
by Darling Pretty
Summary: "Margarita Karpov was no more. She was and always had been Margaret Carter, known to friends and family as Peggy, born in Hampstead, England. Her family had perished in the Great War. She was an agent of the Strategic Scientific Reserve and she'd been assigned to help recruit the best and brightest in order to determine the first human subject for the project known as Rebirth."
1. Red

She had once loved the color red. When she was little, her father had scrounged up enough money for red hair ribbons and presented them to her.

"For my littlest pearl," he'd said with a proud grin. Her brother had pouted. Papa had always liked her more, even if he loved Mikhail just as much. She had worn the ribbons every day to school, shining proudly in her hair. Mama and Papa had always believed in the power of education.

They were dead now. Nothing more than red spilled across the snow. She hated the color red now.

* * *

She was older now. She'd blossomed into a beautiful young woman, she was told. She didn't like to look in mirrors. There was always red slashed across her lips- it was _alluring_ , her teachers said.

She had different teachers now. They were nothing like the teachers of her childhood. They did not encourage or instill hope. They beat her when she was wrong and stripped her of her regular speaking voice. They taught her seven different languages and her hand was hit with a switch if she spoke any of them with even the slightest deviation from the natural accent. She was used to it by now.

Her first night at the school, she had curled up into a ball on the hard pallet that served as her bed. She was beaten for that too. Beaten until her back was crimson with her own blood. The housemother had a bit of red on her face; that was hers too.

* * *

She was older still. She was no longer beaten and she had killed. It was lucky that school had beaten any trace of religion out of her once Mama and Papa had died—that was fuzzy too now. Blood on fresh snow but surely they had died for the greater good, the Cause.

She was lethal now. A weapon and nothing more. Missions were given and completed. She gave the men she killed, powerful men, very little thought. Her red lipstick was worn as a badge of honor.

There were other men who she wasn't ordered to kill. She seduced them, wormed her way into their lives. She made herself their mistress- most of them had wives and children. She took them to bed, made them feel young again. Men would tell her anything if they could only imagine she might come back for another round.

It was her specialty; her superiors praised her, inferiors came to her for advice. Her body was a small price to pay for state secrets.

She rarely thought of home anymore; in fact, she scorned the idea. They'd taken that from her along with her childhood.

A trained killer, a trained seductress, with no conscience. That was what they wanted her to be and that was almost what she was, if not for a hit gone awry.

Red splashed across the snow- it wasn't supposed to be this way. Poison was her usual order of the day, until it proved unsuccessful. It was unsuccessful here.

She had extracted the information they wanted, of Erskine's defection to the United States, of the plans they had for the serum; there was no reason to kill him but the order came anyway.

Red splashed across the snow. She was gone before there were witnesses, but not quickly enough to miss the cries of a new widow and a little girl asking her papa to wake.

She'd done the same thing once, hadn't she? Had she? Was that her? There was her brother. He pulled her away. He always was more practical. She'd hidden her face in his shoulder. Hadn't she?

Her memories were shattered, confused and broken. She knew nothing except this: no longer did she want to do this.

* * *

She could not run. They would find her. She could not end her life. She wanted to live. But she did not want to kill anymore. In her bunk at night, she pulled out a small black journal, the one luxury she was allowed. She began to fill it with names, with what she could remember of those she'd ended or ruined. It had been found before; she was allowed it because she had claimed it as a trophy, a way of keeping her head held high. It was not a trophy. It was her shame.

She was called in for another meeting, another briefing. She refused to go. Let them kill her. Let them do what they wished. She would not kill again.

Unceremoniously, she was yanked from her bed and dragged to the chamber. She did not fight but she certainly not help.

"You're disappointing me." Her handler spoke in Russian, her mother tongue.

"I won't kill anymore," she spit.

"You don't know what is being asked of you."

"I won't do it. Whatever it is. Kill me if you like. I am done."

His smile wasn't a smile and she'd have shivered if she hadn't been trained to suppress all emotion. "You will take this assignment and thank me. I have been kind to you. I have kept you safe, made you what you are."

"I don't want to be anymore."

He slapped her across the face and she knew her cheek was red with his fury. Her pale skin showed marks easily; it had always kept her from being too badly beaten- no one wanted permanently soiled goods. She stood tall.

Her handler nodded to the men behind her. Two of them left. "You _will_ take this assignment because you are the best we have and I ask it of you."

"No."

"Bring him in."

She turned and her stomach dropped. She might not have her memories, but the man who was dragged in was unmistakable and she'd forgotten him until now. Man was perhaps too kind a word; he'd been beaten within an inch of his life. But his eyes lit up when he saw her. "Margarita."

"Mikhail!"

The depth of emotion welling up in her surprised her. She'd thought emotion had been trampled out of her long ago. But she had to protect him. She needed to.

"You will take this mission or he will suffer and you will watch."

Her brother shook his head no and tried to speak. He was cuffed upside the head by a guard for his efforts.

She bowed her head. "What is my target?"

Within hours, she was on an airplane and no longer herself. Margarita Karpov was no more. She was and always had been Margaret Carter, known to friends and family as Peggy, born in Hampstead, England. Her family had perished in the Great War. She was an agent of the Strategic Scientific Reserve and she'd been assigned to help recruit the best and brightest in order to determine the first human subject for the project known as Rebirth.


	2. Trust

Chester Phillips did not like her at first. She could hardly blame him; he had a division to run. She'd have hated having a stranger dumped into her lap in his place. But that didn't make her job any easier.

Phillips was made of stern stuff, not the type she could take to bed and gain his trust. She suspected that if there was a Mrs. Phillips somewhere on base she was _very_ secure in their relationship. His eye would never wander, never stray. It was annoying. But Peggy had to hand it to him; he hated her because she was a nuisance until proven otherwise, not because she was a woman. She could respect that.

Peggy (she thought of herself as Peggy now; Margarita was no longer) did always love a challenge and gaining the trust of the higher ups on the base did seem to present one. Slowly, she circled him, learning what to say, what to suggest. She'd have to gain his respect before his trust. And Chester Phillips respected anyone who planted themselves in the face of his anger or disapproval and held their ground. So that was who Peggy Carter became. She began to speak up in meetings, give good tactical advice. When he glared, she stared back, serene and unbothered. Slowly, he started taking her advice. She knew she had him when he gruffly clapped one rough hand on her shoulder after a meeting and walked off.

Still, she didn't realize just how great a job she'd done until he surprised her in the record room. "Carter, my office, ten minutes."

She nodded. "Yes, sir." He liked her for efficiency not for long speeches.

Peggy was sitting in his office exactly nine minutes later. She crossed her legs; the move usually had men salivating, looking her over. Phillips just crunched an apple. And _that_ had Peggy salivating; fresh fruit was a rare treat.

"Sorry, skipped lunch," was the explanation.

She shrugged. It was no skin off her nose if he wanted to eat in front of her. "You wanted to see me, sir?" The British accent was becoming easier and easier to maintain the longer she used it. That was how it always went.

"I assume you're up to speed on what we're doing here."

"Project Rebirth. Yes."

"We're about to start the selection process. Stark assures us he's ready with the facility and Erskine has seen tremendous progress with the formula. We're almost ready for the next step."

"Sir?"

"I want you on the front lines of this, Carter."

She stayed quiet. Silence was sometimes just as a powerful a weapon as seduction when it came to making men talk.

"It means an increase in your duties. More work. No more money. A lot of people wouldn't think it was worth it."

"What exactly does the work entail?"

"We'll give you a list of what you'd be looking for in the candidates. You'd be in charge of recording any signs of those qualities. Both physical and mental. You're good at reading people."

Her lips twitched up. He had _no_ idea. "I suppose so."

"So?"

She knew this was what she was meant to do and nodded with a smile. "I'll do it. Thank you, sir. It's an honor."

Within a week, Phillips had her run ragged. It was as if gaining his trust made it even harder to gain his approval. But she managed. The recruiting process itself was almost done and she worked closely with Erskine to ensure that she knew what to look for.

Peggy might even say she liked the German, if she liked anyone at all. He was a funny little man and she could tell that losing his country had shaken the man. It was something she could relate to in a way. She'd lost her home too, once. Her memory was faulty and she didn't know when, but home was always a word tinged with loss.

Honesty. Loyalty. Compassion. Empathy. These were the things she was supposed to be looking for in the candidates, according to the doctor. Phillips wanted strong and obedient. Erskine wanted "qualities beyond the physical." Peggy was inclined to agree with him, though what did she really know?

Working on an army base was different than anything she'd experienced. Peggy was used to being ogled, but she was usually a solitary operative. And _trying_ to be ogled, if she were perfectly honest. The longer she spent on the base, the more she found she didn't like it. She was more than a piece of meat, more than her body. She was her mind too.

Which wasn't to say that she didn't indulge a few of them; even if she didn't particularly like them, her body certainly did. Besides, the revolving door nature of the camp allowed her to not worry about any possible repercussions; she'd never see most of them again once they shipped out. She sought certain men out. Men who could be trusted not to spread lies about her, but not quite so gentlemanly that they'd be hesitant to find themselves in her bed without much preamble. The arrangement worked well.

Near enough to their camp was a bar, built to cater to soldiers obviously. The alcohol wasn't good but they poured enough to make it worth it. Peggy frequented the place at least once a week. It was warm inside, cozy and less terrible than the world outside. The men were nervous and often drank too much. She sat at the bar in the corner and watched the show. Not often was she noticed, but when she was, it was easy enough to get a free drink or two.

"Hey, doll."

It was a line she heard too often in too many situations. The opener to a dance she was all too familiar with, nearly a cliché at this point. But the speaker was handsome and his lips looked like he could do sinful things with them. She turned to face him, eyebrow quirked. Peggy Carter believed in making her conquests work for it. She waited for him to speak again; she knew he would. She'd make an assessment based on how he handled the situation.

"Your drink's almost empty."

She looked down. He was correct. She rattled the glass. "So it would seem."

"Top you off?"

"If you must."

"What're you drinking?"

"Whiskey. Neat." His eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly. "Is there a problem?"

"Nothin', just… A girl who looks like you, drinking a drink like that." He exhaled. "It's surprising. Not in a bad way."

"I like to stand out."

He gave her a once over. "You sure do." Signaling the bartender, he ordered them both a round.

"When do you ship out?" she asked.

"Two days." He had that look they all got; that fear of the unknown.

Peggy took pity on him and stuck out her hand. "Agent Peggy Carter," she introduced herself. "Might as well know who you're drinking with." His hand was already lightly resting on the small of her back; she knew where this was leading.

"Sergeant James Barnes."

Red lips curled into smile and she took a sip of her drink, crimson nail tapping a slow beat against the glass.


End file.
